


Veins Are Red, Veins Are Blue

by dear_monday



Series: Veins Are Red, Veins Are Blue [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a little button up at the top of the page, marked "gallery", and Gerard clicks on it. It presents him with a handful of different names, presumably the artists in residence, and he skims down the list until he spots it: <i>Frank Iero (horror/gore, traditional American designs)</i>. Iero, Gerard thinks, rolling the name around his head like a rosary bead in his palm. Of course the fucker is Italian, because the world is cruel and Gerard's life is hard. With a deep, tortured sigh, he clicks on Frank's name.</p><p>In which Frank is a tattoo artist and Gerard is a fearsome and terrifying undead creature of the night. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veins Are Red, Veins Are Blue

**Author's Note:**

> MANY THANKS TO [THISHORRORSHOW](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thishorrorshow) AND [SYNONOMY](http://archiveofourown.org/users/synonomy) AS WELL AS THE USUAL SUSPECTS ON TUMBLR FOR ENCOURAGEMENT ILY ALL A FRANKLY RIDICULOUS AMOUNT FOR PUTTING UP WITH ME AND THIS MASSIVELY SELF-INDULGENT FIC, UGH ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
>  **EDIT!** podfic by the lovely [dapatty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty) is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/746128) :D

"You," says Mikey witheringly, "Are ridiculous."

"I know," Gerard groans, his head in his hands. "Jesus, you don't have to rub it in. I hate you."

"Ridiculous," Mikey insists. "You're a _vampire_. You're a terrifying undead creature of darkness and you're scared of _needles_."

"Fuck off, Mikey."

"Not just needles," continues Mikey ruthlessly. "Also, moths, talking on the phone, heights, anyone under the age of seventeen, anyone _over_ the age of seventeen--"

"Okay, okay!" Gerard raises his hands placatingly, and Mikey lifts one eyebrow in silent but nonetheless damning judgement. Gerard doesn't think he's being fair. Being undead doesn't make you immune to perfectly reasonable fears. Moths, for example. Horrible, dusty, flappy little fuckers. He shudders.

Mikey dumps the paper bag of groceries on the counter with a heavy thud. "This is the last time I'm doing your fucking groceries," he says, for the third time this week. Gerard attempts a winning smile, although he feels that the conspicuously pointy canines probably aren't helping his cause. Mikey fishes one of the cans out of the bag and squints at it suspiciously. "I don't know why you drink this shit," he says. "It's fucking rank. You are _allowed_ to feed from people, you know."

"But it's so _awkward_ ," whines Gerard. He knows he sounds like a petulant five year old and he doesn't care. "What am I supposed to say? Hi, I'm technically dead and I thirst for your bodily fluids, how would you like to donate some?"

"That sounds so wrong."

"Shut up. You're not even a fucking vampire, you don't understand."

Mikey contorts his face into an unkind yet accurate imitation of Gerard's downturned pout and pleading eyebrows. Gerard throws a nearby spoon at his head and misses.

"Pathetic," says Mikey severely. "Later, Gee."

He walks out, kicking the door shut behind him and leaving Gerard alone. Gerard sighs deeply, and switches the TV on. He doesn't like canned blood, no one does. It tastes stale and dead and faintly of whatever shit they put in it to stop it clotting. But his only other option is a consenting human, and since his social circle consists of Mikey and pretty much no one else, that presents a problem. Feeding and fucking are so inextricably tangled up in his brain that he doesn't think he's even capable of feeding without getting turned on, which makes things sort of uncomfortable with one's friends (if one has any, which Gerard doesn't) and, more to the point, siblings.

Also, it probably doesn't help that he hasn't managed to get laid in approximately forever. He flips abstractedly through the TV channels, watching the screen without taking anything in. It's raining hard outside, gusts of wind rattling the windows and the falling water creating a sort of low-level white noise. It's quite soothing, actually. It's only eleven p.m. - still early for a vampire keeping nocturnal hours - but he's feeling sleepy. Maybe just five minutes, he thinks, settling deeper into his spot on the couch.

And then, someone knocks on his door. Gerard groans. It's probably just Mikey coming back because he left his keys or something. Another knock sounds, this time more impatient.

"I'm _coming_ , asshole, Jesus," he calls, dragging himself up and over to the door before opening it with an exasperated sigh.

It isn't Mikey.

"Oh," he says intelligently. "You're not Mikey."

"No," admits the dude on Gerard's doorstep. "Uh. Sorry?"

Gerard looks at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. He's short, soaked through from the rain, with an untidy mop of dark hair and enormous dark eyes. He's also really, really fucking pretty, and Gerard brutally suppresses the urge to lean in and sniff him.

"Is there, uh, something I can do for you?" he asks, pulling himself together. The dude swallows, and nods.

"I'm really sorry, man," he says again, earnestly, "But I was on my way home from work and this guy jumped me, ran off with my cell phone and my wallet. Yours is the first place I've tried where anyone's even answered the door. Can I just use your phone real quick?"

"Oh! Yeah, sure. Shit, of course. Come on in." Gerard holds the door open to let the guy through. He knows letting a stranger - no matter how pretty - into your apartment is a stupid thing to do, but the guy is human and there's no way he weighs more than a hundred and forty pounds. And Gerard is, at the end of the day, a vampire. Albeit a very lonely vampire who's actually quite enjoying the human contact.

"Thanks, dude," says the guy fervently. "You're a lifesaver. I'm Frank, by the way."

"No worries. And, uh, Gerard." Gerard pats down his pockets, hunting for his cell phone. "You do know this is a vampire block, though, right? That's why no one else is in."

"Ahh," says Frank slowly. "Yeah, that makes sense. I guess I didn't see the sign." He's sort of sagging against the wall like a deflated balloon. The poor guy looks exhausted.

"Here." Gerard finally tracks down his cell and hands it over. Frank takes it gratefully, and starts punching in a number. Gerard mooches into the living room, trying not to look as if he's eavesdropping. Which he totally is, but whatever. He's hungry and Frank smells delicious, and even shitty canned blood would take the edge off his hunger, but he doesn't want to scare Frank away. Apparently drinking blood in front of non-vamps makes them uncomfortable. He potters aimlessly around the living room, half-heartedly tidying the stacks of magazines and stray books.

"Hey." Frank's head appears around the door and Gerard surreptitiously kicks one of his more risqué porn magazines under the couch. "Uh, I'm done." He hands Gerard back his cell phone. "My friend's gonna come and pick me up, he'll be here soon. Is it alright if I stay? Sorry, I know this is kind of weird."

"No!" Gerard says quickly. For one thing, it's still raining, and he isn't a complete asshole. For another, even if he were, he isn't in the business of kicking pretty, tasty-smelling boys out of his apartment. "No, man, it's cool. You want a drink or something?"

"What do you have?" asks Frank cautiously.

Gerard snorts, unable to help himself. Frank is kind of adorable. "Don't worry, there's some non-vamp stuff in the fridge. Beer? Coke? I think there's probably some juice left, if you want it."

Frank relaxes visibly with a sheepish smile. "Sorry," he says. "I, uh. Don't know any vamps personally. Coke would be great, if you've got it."

Gerard conducts a quick search of the fridge and emerges triumphant to pass Frank a can. "So where d'you work?" he asks, surprising himself. He's pretty sure he hadn't meant to say that, it just sort of... slipped out.

"The tattoo parlour off Second Avenue, behind the mall," Frank says, cracking open the can and taking a noisy slurp. It's an odd little quirk that Gerard finds unbearably endearing. He really, really hopes Frank's friend shows up soon.

"Wait, wait. You're a tattoo artist?" he says, as what Frank said sinks into his highly distracted brain. "Dude."

Frank beams, hair wet and plastered to his forehead, raindrops sparkling on his eyelashes, his t-shirt sodden and his crooked teeth bright, large as life, and, bewilderingly, _in Gerard's living room_. "Best job in the world," he says happily.

"You're an artist," Gerard says. "Seriously, that's. Oh, man, that's _awesome_." He can feel himself grinning stupidly. "I went to art school, majored in cartooning."

"Yeah?" Frank downs another mouthful of coke and Gerard absolutely does not stare at the line of his throat when he tips his head back. Frank smells so good in the small, warm room, sort of spicy-sweet. "You should come by the shop sometime. I mean, it's non-vamp hours, but if you ever wanted to..."

"I-- no, yeah! I'll, uh, I'll come in. Drop by, and. Yeah." Outside, a car horn blares and Gerard wants to punch himself in the face. God, he's a fucking idiot. A fucking idiot of truly monumental proportions. A smooth-talking and seductive man of mystery he is most definitely not.

"That'll be Ray," Frank says, putting his drink down. "Shouldn't keep him waiting. Thanks, man, it was really cool of you to help me out. See you... well, see you sometime, yeah?" He aims a dazzling smile at Gerard, hesitates for a moment before grabbing Gerard's hand and shaking it, and then he's gone, ambling back out of Gerard's life again with a little wave over his shoulder.

Gerard sits down heavily on the couch, suddenly feeling very tired. This is precisely why he never goes out, there are _people_ everywhere. People are exhausting. He's starving now, but with Frank's scent still lingering everywhere, the cans of O Negative in the cupboard are going to taste even worse.

Instead, he leans forward and grabs his laptop from the cluttered coffee table and fires it up. He drums his fingers impatiently against his thigh as it whirrs grumpily before grudgingly presenting him with the login screen. He nodded along when Frank mentioned it, but in actual fact he has no idea where this tattoo parlour is. Tattoo parlours are normally places he takes great pains to avoid completely. The art can be fucking spectacular and he's sure it would be fascinating to see it being put onto people's skin, but - needles. Gerard does not like needles. Still, the more you know, right? A few minutes of searching bring him to a website with an address and a telephone number, and Gerard pauses for a moment to congratulate himself on his stalking skills. There's a little button up at the top marked "gallery", and he clicks on it. It presents him with a handful of different names, presumably the artists in residence, and he skims down the list until he spots it: _Frank Iero (horror/gore, traditional American designs)_. Iero, Gerard thinks, rolling the name around his head like a rosary bead in his palm. Of _course_ the fucker is Italian, because the world is cruel and Gerard's life is hard. With a deep, tortured sigh, he clicks on Frank's name.

Frank's work is _strong_ , that's the best word Gerard can think of for it. Good, clean lines, bold and true. The old school stuff - hearts and birds and anchors - is solid and easy on the eye, but it's the other stuff that catches and holds Gerard's attention. Frank's section of the gallery is a mixture of sketches, ink drawings and finished tattoos, grinning skulls and smirking zombie girls and laughing monsters. It's trashy and punky and vibrant, and it's fucking brilliant. Gerard can imagine him working with the Misfits playing and some shitty horror movie turned down low in the background. He scrolls past a skeletal clown and a slavering wolf-man, then back up to a decomposing pin-up girl in killer heels and knuckledusters.

He's beginning to think it might actually be worth braving the ranks of needles to see Frank again, if only to tell him how fucking kick-ass his art is. Only this time Gerard won't be hungry, and will therefore be completely immune to Frank's singularly delicious smell. Because, god, that was nearly so embarrassing. Gerard clicks back to the homepage, searching for the opening times. He isn't going to go, obviously, but it wouldn't hurt to know. He's only looking. It seems like Frank is working again tomorrow, but even if Gerard was planning to go (which he definitely isn't), he wouldn't go tomorrow. It would look much too keen. He wouldn't want Frank to feel like he's being stalked by a card-carrying member of the undead, as apparently that's another thing that makes non-vamps uncomfortable.

Not that Gerard is going to go. He takes another look at a couple of the artfully-posed pin-ups. He'd be willing to bet that even if Frank did turn out to be down with donating some blood to a poor starving vamp (which isn't off the table yet), Gerard has a feeling that Frank would prefer his bloodsucker with less dick and more tits.

All the same, though, Frank's art really is awesome. And Gerard really would like to tell him how much he appreciates the bloody-mouthed runaway bride and the schoolgirl clawing her way out of a grave. There are some neat jack-o-lanterns as well, and the man hanging from a rosary is badass too. It looks sort of like a chapel window, cut into some guy's chest.

Maybe Gerard could email him or something. That way he wouldn't have to go outside or see people or be near any needles. And he'd be able to re-write his message as many times as he needs to in order to vet out any mortifying slip-ups. Although, on second thoughts, perhaps what's bound to end up as a gushing ode to Frank's work isn't the best way to manoeuvre himself into the non-creepy box.

Not that it matters, because Gerard isn't seeing Frank again and he definitely isn't going to visit him at work, and that's the end of it.

 

*

 

"So this Fred--"

"Frank."

"Fred, Frank, whatever. He's a tattoo artist?"

Gerard nods dolefully. Mikey adjusts his Chinese takeout carton in his lap and points one of his chopsticks accusingly at Gerard.

"And he specifically said he wanted you to drop into the place where he works, right?"

"Not _specifically_ ," Gerard says evasively, suddenly becoming very interested in his mug of microwaved A Positive.

"But he said it."

"Well, yeah, but he wasn't _serious_. It was just, like. You know, one of those spur-of-the-moment things."

"Shut up. The point is, he said it. So he isn't going to mind if you show up."

"He might freak out!" Gerard protests. "He said he didn't know any other vamps. I bet he'd freak out."

"He's a horror artist! He's more likely to start making notes on you or something." Mikey jabs his chopstick in Gerard's direction to make his point.

"Yeah, okay," Gerard concedes. He burrows deeper into his hoodie and sips at his reheated blood. "I'm still not going," he mutters, and Mikey rolls his eyes.

"Sure," he says. "Tell me how that works out for you. Which movie d'you wanna start with?"

 

* 

 

In the end, Gerard does go, just like he sort of always knew he would. He chooses a gloomy Thursday morning, and carefully swaddles himself in several layers of clothing (protection from errant needles and patches of sunlight). He isn't used to being awake at this time, and his body clock is protesting loudly. He really wishes he hadn't had that third cup of coffee; he feels sleepy and jittery at the same time. It's warmer than it looked from his kitchen window and he's uncomfortably hot in his scarf and multiple hoodies. It's a common misconception even now that vamps are always cold - they're like stones, absorbing and holding the temperature of the space around them, and right now Gerard has this awful feeling that he might be blushing.

He slows to a halt, looking up at the colourful storefront. This is the place, but he's having trouble forcing himself to go in. _Ridiculous_ , says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Mikey's. _Call yourself a vampire_.

He steels himself, and pushes the door open. "Hi," he says to the heavily-tattooed guy behind the counter before he can talk himself out of it. "I'm looking for, uh, Frank? Frank Iero?"

"Uh huh." The guy looks Gerard up and down dubiously, taking in his excessive clothing and his palpable discomfort. Gerard fiddles self-consciously with his stretched-out hoodie sleeves. God, what is _wrong_ with him? He wishes fervently for the ground to swallow him up, or for a convenient lightning strike. "You got an appointment?"

"I... uh, no, but he..." Gerard says, feeling increasingly desperate. Spontaneous combustion is a thing that happens to people, right? "He said I could--"

"Gerard! Hey, man, you made it!"

Oh, thank god. Gerard is so relieved his knees almost give out. He turns to see Frank emerging from a back room with an enormous, blinding grin and - oh, god. And a sleeveless Black Flag t-shirt. He was wearing a hoodie when Gerard saw him last, but now Gerard can see the gorgeous tattoos wrapping around Frank's arms, his hands, his neck, disappearing under the frayed shirt. Gerard is absolutely certain there are more, and he only just manages to suppress a little whimper.

"I-- yeah! Hi!" he manages, which, under the circumstances, is quite an achievement. Unfortunately, his hand then goes rogue and does a stupid little wave, but, hey, he thinks, you can't have everything.

Frank turns to the dude behind the counter. "This is the guy who helped me out the other night when that fucker jumped me," he says.

Disapproving Counter Dude raises an eyebrow at Frank. "You look like a fucking juvenile delinquent, Iero. I still don't know how the hell you managed to find someone who voluntarily let you into their house."

"Go fuck yourself, Brian," says Frank easily, then looks back at Gerard. "C'mon, I'll show you the studio." He heads back through the doorway he appeared in, and Gerard darts one last nervous look at Disapproving Counter Dude (Brian, apparently) before scuttling after Frank.

"Glad you came," Frank says happily, and Gerard fights the urge to avert his eyes from that blinding smile.

"I looked you up," says Gerard. "On the website for this place? Dude, your shit's fucking awesome."

"Really?" Frank looks as if he isn't quite sure whether or not Gerard is making fun of him. "I mean, a lot of it's just commissions. And it's not exactly highbrow stuff."

"Yeah, but I love that!" Gerard says enthusiastically, then realises his teeth are probably showing and tones it down a little. "It's so... I don't know, un-cynical? Fuck, I'm not making any sense."

"No, I get you." Frank's smile is small, but pleased. "Thanks, man."

It's warm in the studio, the metallic smell of needles and ink enveloped by Frank's own scent. God, he must taste incredible.

Gerard gives himself a mental shake. Coming to Frank's workplace and thirsting for his blood is so, _so_ not cool. Get a _grip_ , he tells himself sternly. Jesus Christ.

Frank's studio is full of sketches and reference photographs, piled high on every available surface, but it's meticulously clean. Thankfully, there are no needles that Gerard can see. He shudders at the very thought.

"Here, this is something I've been working on for a friend of mine," Frank says, handing Gerard a sheet of paper with a carefully shaded drawing on it. It's a skeleton, dressed up like a drummer in a marching band, striding proudly across the page. Gerard experiences a simultaneous surge of _oh, wow, that's fucking sweet_ and _fuck, I wish I'd thought of that_.

"Dude," he says reverently. "Oh, man."

Frank beams proudly, like a parent whose kid has just said its first word. Like, _hell yeah, I made that_. It's adorable. Wow, Gerard thinks, distantly. I am absolutely fucked.

The two of them spend the next quarter of an hour leafing through more of Frank's work, with Frank grinning every time Gerard makes an appreciative noise or compliments his linework.

"You can keep looking if you want," Frank says eventually. "I've got an appointment at eleven, I should get ready."

"Oh! Yeah, sure. Shit, am I getting in your way? Seriously, just tell me to get out."

"Nah, you're good for a while. I just need to prep a few things before she gets here. I mean, uh, don't feel like you have to stay," he adds. "But, you know. I'm not kicking you out or anything."

For a rather disconcerting moment, Gerard finds that he's completely forgotten how to speak English. Instead, he attempts a shy smile (being careful not to flash his fangs at Frank, because apparently that can appear aggressive to non-vamps) and goes back to sifting through Frank's work. There are several pieces he recognises from the website, all of which look even better in the metaphorical flesh. Mostly, though, it's unfamiliar - more ghosts and severed limbs and elaborately decorated hearts being pierced by dark, sharp little arrows. Sometimes, Gerard really, really wishes he could be one of those people who wear their ink like a second skin, carrying art with them everywhere they go like living, breathing scrapbooks and galleries. But, quite apart from his deep-rooted phobia of needles, there's the issue of his undeadness, which is problematic as everyone knows tattoos just won't take on vamp skin.

Still, it doesn't hurt to look.

Gerard drifts from drawing to drawing, as if he's submerged in the world of Frank's imagination. There are one or two sketches of vampires, which Gerard studies with keen interest. Art is a very telling thing, he's curious to see what Frank really thinks of vamps. One is of an old Hollywood-style vamp girl with a nipped-in hourglass waist, gravitationally improbable tits and a crimson smile full of teeth, but there's a name and phone number in the corner as well as some other notes, so Gerard assumes it must be another commission and puts it back down. The other, though, is more interesting. It's a loose sketch, not drawn like something designed to be transferred onto someone's skin, and there are no commission notes on it that Gerard can see. It's definitely of a guy, androgynous to the point of pretty, sprawled out on top of a faint suggestion of rumpled sheets, yawning and stretching like a cat, fangs exposed, all sinuous, smoky lines. There's a cigarette between his fingers, trailing faintly-pencilled smoke. Gerard can practically feel the warmth of the afterglow radiating off the page.

He looks over his shoulder at Frank, still methodically wiping down the imposing leather chair and pulling things out of cupboards. _Well_. That's certainly given him something to think about. Carefully, he tucks the sketch back into one of the stacks on the table.

"I should, uh, get out of your way," he croaks, hoping to god he can remember how his legs are supposed to work.

"Oh! Sorry, you've probably got shit to do," Frank says, with a self-deprecating smile. "Like, uh, sleeping. It's pretty late for you, right? Seriously, though, thanks for coming."

"No, man, thanks for letting me come," Gerard manages, then groans inwardly at his choice of words. _Of all the fucking things he could have said_. "I'll... see you round?"

"Hey, yeah." Frank looks like he has something else to say, so Gerard stands there awkwardly and waits. "So, uh, shoot me down in flames if I've got this totally wrong," he blurts suddenly, avoiding Gerard's eyes. "But would you... wanna go out some time? With me, I mean. If you want."

"Wait," Gerard says, intelligently. "I. What?"

"Oh god." Frank covers his eyes. "Oh, _god_. Okay. The fuck am I doing? Sorry, man, can we just... forget I said that?"

"No!" Gerard says quickly, suddenly panicked that his miracle is slipping away from him. "I mean, yes. I do want."

"Really?"

"Really," Gerard reassures him. "I was gonna ask you the same thing, actually." That's a total lie and he knows it; he never would have had the balls. Instead, he would have done his level best to seem cool and detached, then gone home and brooded and mooned over Frank before vowing never to see him again.

But the intent was totally there. And it's the thought that counts.

"So what d'you wanna do?" Frank says. "Drinks? Or, I don't know, dinner or something?"

"Dinner," Gerard repeats, and Frank's eyes get almost comically wide.

"Oh, god," he stammers. "I didn't mean-- dinner as in, well, just dinner, I guess, just a regular meal, you know, not dinner like... um. You know." Frank makes an awkward, abortive hand gesture that is, Gerard presumes, supposed to represent a vamp bite.

Gerard can't restrain himself any longer, and cracks up. "Your face," he wheezes. "Shit, I'm sorry, that was low. But you should have seen yourself."

Frank groans. "I kind of walked into that one, huh?"

"You kind of did."

"And you're gonna keep laughing whenever this happens?"

"Pretty much," agrees Gerard unrepentantly. "So. Dinner?"

 

*

 

Bizarrely, Gerard isn't at all nervous. He hasn't had a date since high school (and those few experiences were absolutely excruciating), and he usually finds the act of leaving his apartment so traumatic he has to go back inside immediately to recover. And yet, somehow, he's as cool as the proverbial cucumber as he gets out of bed at eight PM, saunters into the kitchen for a cup of coffee with a dash of O Negative and, thus fortified, sets about looking for some semi-clean clothes. He finds some eventually and wrangles himself into them, then looks himself up and down in the smeared mirror on his closet door. Not too shabby, he thinks. Not bad at all.

This is fucking weird. Why the hell isn't he nervous? He's always nervous, it's sort of his normal state of existence. He's just a nervous person. He worries about looking stupid and about people not liking him, and about having to talk to people, and about... well, everything, really. And all that shit is small fry compared to an actual date with a painfully pretty and tasty-smelling dude.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" he hisses at his reflection, which looks decidedly shifty.

"Lame," calls a voice from the hallway, drawing the word out, and Gerard almost jumps out of his skin. Jesus.

"Fuck off, Mikey," Gerard sing-songs back. "I'm busy."

Mikey ambles into Gerard's room, smirking like the asshole he is. "Look at you," he says. "All dressed up, huh?"

And, oh, _there_ it is. Gerard experiences a sudden, violent surge of panic which manifests itself as a decidedly queasy feeling in his gut. It's almost reassuring. "You think it's too much?" he says, looking down at himself. Clean dark blue jeans, one of his few t-shirts that doesn't bear the image of a comic book or horror movie character, matching black socks, leather jacket. He wonders whether or not he still has time to change.

Mikey groans. "How?" he says, flatly. "How is it even possible to suck so bad at life?"

"Undeadness."

"I'm not saying that, it sounds dumb. And you look fine, Jesus. Keep the jacket, don't you dare go get a hoodie instead. You'll be fine."

"Thanks, Mikes," he says wearily. Mikey's advice always comes with a certain amount of sarcasm, eye-rolling and little-brother-smugness, but it's usually worth it.

"So where's Fred--"

" _Frank_. You know he's called Frank, I've told a hundred times."

"I know, you're just way too easy to fuck with. Where are you meeting up?"

"He's coming here, actually," Gerard says tartly, looking back at the mirror and attempting vainly to achieve a sexy bed-head effect without looking too much like a crazy hobo. He really is feeling sick now. Maybe he should just call the whole thing off. "So you can clear off, he's gonna be here any minute."

And, of course, Frank chooses that moment to ring the doorbell.

"I'll get it!" Gerard half-yells, practically bounding past Mikey, having now disintegrated into a state of total and utter nervous wreckage. There's a slightly undignified scuffle for the door handle, but Gerard emerges victorious (despite a bony elbow to the ribs from Mikey) and opens the door.

"Hi, Frank," he says, aiming for charming and urbane but unfortunately sounding shrill and slightly out-of-breath.

"Hey," says Frank, and Gerard is intensely relieved to see that Frank looks nervous too. "Uh."

"Mikey," Mikey says, sighing and simultaneously catching Gerard with a sneaky kick in the shin. "This loser's my brother. Hi."

He extends a bony hand and Frank takes it, still not looking reassured.

"So," Frank beams, offering Gerard his arm like something from an old Hollywood movie. "C'mon, I'm taking you out."

 

*

 

Much to Gerard's surprise, dinner passes without incident. The restaurant is a little Italian place, tucked away between another mall and an industrial warehouse, but it's bright and cheerful and full of people. Frank seems to know the head waiter, who claps him on the shoulder and says something in quick-fire Italian that makes Frank blush.

(It takes Gerard a moment to regain his composure at this point. Not only is Frank even prettier when he blushes, but the thought of so much hot blood just beneath Frank's skin makes Gerard's mouth water.)

The waiter leads them through the packed restaurant to a table tucked away from the noise and the crowd in the back corner, and Frank pulls Gerard's chair out for him and manages to keep a straight face for an entire three seconds before cracking up. Gerard is pleasantly surprised to see a comprehensive list of blood types underneath the wine list. Although vamps and humans generally get along happily enough, not every restaurant caters to both groups. Gerard wonders if Frank chose this place deliberately.

Frank is fucking enchanting, chattering away about horror movies and punk bands and books and tattoos and god knows what else, so quickly that Gerard's head starts to spin. Gerard is suddenly finding it difficult to maintain his nervousness. He even attempts to flirt back a little (as best he can, given that he feels as if he's floundering in Frank's slipstream), and Frank keeps shooting him these little secret smiles that send Gerard's lifeless heart skipping.

"So," Frank says slowly, as he polishes off the last bite of his fancy spaghetti thing, and Gerard's heart leaps into his throat. This _so_ going to be the moment where someone jumps out at him and yells "Psych!"

"What?" prompts Gerard, when no more information seems to be forthcoming. Frank looks down at his empty plate and then back up at Gerard through his eyelashes, as if he's trying to muster the nerve to say whatever it is he wants to say. He chuckles nervously.

"Would it..." he starts, and clears his throat. "Would it be weird if I said I really, really wanted to kiss you right now?"

Gerard can feel a shy smile uncurling across his own face as he watches Frank light up like a paper lantern. "I don't think that would be weird at all," he says, in an oddly strangled, breathless voice that doesn't sound anything like his own. "But then again, I'm a vampire. I'm not such a good judge of what's weird anymore, you know?"

"Good enough for me," Frank says softly, nudging his foot against Gerard's under the table with a lopsided grin that's nothing short of breath-taking. Not that Gerard technically has any breath to take away anymore, but that's beside the point. He nudges Frank back, feeling like a starry-eyed teenager again, and Frank calls for the check with positively indecent haste.

To their credit, they make it all the way out of the restaurant before Frank's hands are on Gerard, pulling him close and working their way around Gerard's back and into his hair. Frank kisses him gently at first, which Gerard appreciates, as it really has been a long time since he kissed anyone at all and it takes him a moment to remember what he's supposed to do. Frank tastes like wine and something spicy and warm, his tongue slipping into Gerard's mouth and sliding against Gerard's own.

Frank makes a low, satisfied noise and presses a kiss to the corner of Gerard's mouth. "I've wanted to do this," he says, breathlessly, seemingly unable to pull back for long enough to get a coherent sentence out. "Since the night I met you."

Gerard makes an answering noise, as the effect of Frank's mouth on him has temporarily wiped his brain clean of words. Frank's body just fits against his own, Frank's hands deliciously warm and his skin soft and gorgeous-smelling.

"Uh," Gerard manages, as Frank mouths at his jawline. "Should we, you know. My place?"

Frank nods frantically. "Yeah," he says. "Good plan. C'mon."

Their progress is slow, what with Frank stopping every ten paces to stick his hands in Gerard's pockets and kiss him again, hard, and Gerard utterly powerless to resist. Inevitably, he finds himself up against a wall, Frank's hard-on pressed against his thigh, still quite a way from his apartment. Frank is grinding against him and talking filth into his ear, and between the cold stone at his back and Frank hot and restless against his front, he's feeling quite overwhelmed.

"How far are we from your place?" Frank says indistinctly, curling one warm hand around the back of Gerard's neck.

"Far," Gerard mumbles, slipping one hand under the hem of Frank's t-shirt and getting completely distracted by the feel of his skin. He needs Frank to get naked as soon as possible, if not sooner.

"Oh, fuck, I think-- okay. I have an idea, but you have to promise not to freak out."

The idea seems so ridiculous that Gerard lets out an involuntary snort of laughter. "Promise," he says, and Frank's grin is huge and bright in the darkness as he grabs Gerard's hand and drags him down a side street.

"Oh, no," Gerard says when they reach their destination, both panting and laughing and pawing at each other. "Oh, _no_. Frank, please tell me you're kidding."

"Uh uh." Frank has an enormous, shit-eating grin on his face as he fumbles a set of keys from his pocket.

"But you _work_ here!" hisses Gerard, looking anxiously over his shoulder as Frank casually unlocks the door of the tattoo parlour. "And, shit, it's - it's not sanitary and we're probably breaking _so_ many health and safety regulations right now and oh my god if your boss catches us he's going to stake me I swear to god-- mmf!"

Frank keeps kissing him until he stops protesting. This takes about a second and a half, because Frank is doing this thing with his tongue that feels so fucking awesome Gerard can't help but imagine how much better it would feel on other parts of his anatomy.

"Dude, chill," Frank says, his voice balanced just on the edge of laughter, his eyes bright. Gerard feels almost starstruck. "No one's gonna know, and I promise I'll disinfect the fuck out of everything we even looked at. Deal?"

Gerard's answer isn't so much a word as a garbled noise. Fucking Frank and that fucking thing he's doing with his fucking tongue. Gerard makes another noise, this one of agreement, and he feels Frank's grin unfolding. Frank grabs Gerard's hand and drags him up the stairs and into his studio, then stops to push him up against a wall again. Frank kisses like it's a competition, throwing himself into it headfirst with everything he's got, and Gerard catches himself hoping to god that Frank fucks the same way.

An absurd laugh bubbles up in his throat and escapes before he can stop it, and Frank pulls back, his lips shiny-slick, hair tousled, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Nothing, nothing," Gerard says, running his hands up Frank's back. Frank feels warm and solid and so _real_ , this little bundle of tattoos and teeth, all hands and crooked smiles. "Here," he says, guiding Frank away from the wall and back towards the chair. He has a sudden, crazy, monumentally dumb impulse and he's acting on it before giving himself the chance to talk himself out of it. Frank goes without a fight, sitting down heavily in the chair when it hits the backs of his knees. He looks up at Gerard, his legs splayed out and his hard-on obvious through his jeans, and, wow, that's an image Gerard is going to be jerking off to for a while. Slowly, waiting for Frank to stop him, he gets down on his knees in front of the chair and settles his hands on Frank's thighs.

Frank looks down at him, apparently having forgotten how to breathe.

"I really, really wanna suck you off right now," Gerard says, in a weirdly level voice completely at odds with the chaos inside his head. "And if you promise me you're gonna clean this place up tomorrow, that's what I'm gonna do." He stops. "Uh. If you want, I mean."

Frank stares down at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Gerard can't read his expression and it's making him nervous. Maybe he's totally misread this and Frank is about to knee him in the face and book it for somewhere far, far away. Oh, god, and it all seemed to be going so well. "It's cool if you don't wanna, though," he babbles, losing control of his mouth completely. "Like, I won't be offended or anything--" (not strictly true, but whatever) "--it's totally up to you, I know the whole fang thing freaks some people out--"

Gerard could really get used to Frank kissing him whenever he wants him to stop talking.

"That," says Frank, indistinctly, between kisses, "Is the hottest thing I've ever fucking heard, Jesus Christ."

Gerard grins and starts fumbling Frank's jeans open, Frank squirming impatiently under his hands. He hooks his fingers into Frank's boxers and pauses to nuzzle at the trail of dark hair leading down between his hips. Frank's skin smells incredible; Gerard's mouth is watering. He presses one last kiss to Frank's belly, then tugs his boxers out of the way. Frank's breath hitches as his dick bobs free, and Gerard dips his head to wrap his mouth around it.

It's been a really, really long time, but, fuck, Gerard sort of loves sucking cock. He sinks down, Frank hot and heavy and musky on his tongue, and Frank groans and spreads his knees wider. Gerard pulls back up, lapping at the head and making Frank squirm and moan. He's taking extra care to cover his teeth and Frank isn't holding back, making gorgeous, throaty noises and clutching at Gerard's hair. Gerard takes him deeper again, working one hand between Frank's soft thighs to cup his balls.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," says Frank heavily, his hips jerking. "Jesus, you're fucking good at this."

If Gerard didn't have a mouthful of Frank's dick, he'd totally be grinning like an idiot right now. He glances up at Frank, who's gazing down at him with hot, unfocussed eyes, his mouth wet and open. Gerard can feel Frank getting close, and he pulls off to trace the vein on the underside of Frank's cock with the tip of his tongue, light and teasing. Frank makes a choked, desperate noise, and Gerard flashes him a smirk before swallowing him down again. He must look wrecked already, sucking Frank off slow and sloppy, but it seems to be working.

Frank tugs warningly on his hair, his hips bucking up erratically, but Gerard doesn't pull off. An unexpected benefit of becoming a vamp is that if it isn't blood, it doesn't taste of much.

With a broken moan, Frank's hips stutter one last time and he comes, spilling into Gerard's mouth. Gerard sucks him through it and swallows almost without thinking, then pulls off when Frank starts whimpering. Frank pulls Gerard up into his lap and kisses him hard, open-mouthed and dirty.

"You're," he says intelligently. "That was. Fuck."

Gerard grins. His teeth are almost certainly showing, but he doesn't give a shit. He figures that they're probably past all that now. "Yeah?" he says, curling one hand around the back of Frank's neck.

"Oh, yeah." Frank is panting a little, fucked-out and gorgeous, and Gerard is fighting the urge to dry-hump him until he comes in his pants. Frank runs one hand up Gerard's thigh and palms at his cock through his jeans. "So," he says. "I could help you out with that here. Or..." he leaves a dramatic pause, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "We could go back to yours and do this someplace more comfortable."

 

*

 

They make it back to Gerard's apartment, but only just. Gerard slams the door shut behind them and Frank's head lolls back against the wall, his chest rising and falling shallowly and his pulse throbbing deafeningly in Gerard's ears as Frank bares his throat. Gerard crowds in close, pinning him in place and nuzzling under Frank's collar to inhale his scent. Which is probably weird, but Frank doesn't seem to mind.

"You must think-- mmm, fuck. You must think I'm a total fucking slut for putting out on the first date," Frank mumbles with an unsteady giggle, and Gerard snorts. Frank's skin is flushed a pretty pink, all that blood so close to the surface.

"'M not complaining," says Gerard indistinctly against Frank's neck, and he feels Frank shiver. "Anyway, you're not the one who just blew a guy in the place where he works. What do you wanna do? You choose."

Frank whines, grinding up against Gerard's thigh. "What I want," he says shakily, "What I want is for you to fuck me so hard I can't see straight. And I want-- I want you to bite me."

Gerard steps backwards sharply. Non-vamps have been known to say things in the heat of the moment which they don't really mean. He might be desperate to feed from Frank, might be fucking starving (and, god, he is), but the law says he has to have explicit, voluntary permission first. Gerard takes the ethics of being a bloodsucking undead creature extremely seriously. "Frank," he says sternly, looking him in the eye. "Are you sure?"

Frank nods frantically. "Yeah," he says. "If you're down with that, then fuck yeah. Please."

Gerard is pretty sure a non-vamp just not only asked Gerard to bite him, but _said please_.

He's kissing Frank again before he even knows what he's doing, his hands everywhere, Frank hot and delicious-smelling and rutting shamelessly against Gerard.

"C'mon," Gerard says, breaking the kiss with an enormous effort of will. "Bedroom." He half-leads-half-carries Frank down the hallway and kicks the bedroom door open, and Frank drags him down onto the bed. The covers are sprinkled with paint and coffee stains, and Frank looks really, really fucking good sprawled out on top of them. That's a view Gerard could get used to.

They both struggle gracelessly out of their clothes, and before long, Gerard has a naked, squirming Frank underneath him. He sits back on his knees to dig the lube out of the nightstand drawer, feeling Frank's eyes raking over him almost hungrily, as if he's the predator. He nudges Frank's thighs apart, and Frank props himself up on his elbows for a better view, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Gerard slicks his fingers up and slowly, slowly, begins to sink one into Frank. Frank tips his head back and groans, bearing down on Gerard's hand eagerly, and heat coils and sparks in the pit of Gerard's stomach.

"You like that, huh?" he says, surprising himself with his own boldness, sliding his finger deeper into the tight heat of Frank's body.

"Nngh," Frank says, which Gerard takes to mean yes, because he crooks his finger and Frank's back arches, his breath coming out in a broken rush. Gerard adds another finger and Frank groans, shifting his hips like he can't get enough.

"I'm good, that's enough," Frank pants. "C'mon, fucking fuck me."

Gerard doesn't need telling twice. He sits back, sliding his fingers out, and Frank hisses at the sudden loss. Gerard reaches for the lube again and squirts some clumsily into his hand before spreading it over his dick, thanking whatever quirk of nature that's responsible for vamps that they're perfectly sterile, unable to catch or carry diseases. All that really means is that Gerard will never need to buy another condom in his life (undeadness), and that's kind of awesome.

He lifts Frank up easily, grinning at the way his eyes widen, and pins him against the wall. Frank cottons onto what he's doing, and he moans.

"Yeah," he says, his voice rough and wrecked like he's the one who's been sucking cock. "Oh, god, yeah."

Gerard hoists Frank up, his back to the wall and his legs wrapped around Gerard's waist. He reaches down to line himself up, and Frank sinks down onto his cock with a filthy, gorgeous noise. It feels - god, he feels fucking incredible. Gerard could get lost in his body, spend years exploring all the places that make him quiver.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," Frank pants. "Feels so fucking good, right-- ngh, _god!_ "

Gerard eases almost all the way out and thrusts back in hard, eliciting a noise from Frank that's almost a sob. Frank's mouth is moving, but Gerard only catches the odd word - _so full, god, fuck me, fucking perfect_ , a gorgeous litany of filth that Gerard can't let himself listen too closely to in case it undoes him completely and he comes too soon. He's been hard for what feels like hours and now Frank is all around him, hot and covered in art and gasping helplessly.

Gerard can hear Frank's blood singing just under his skin, thumping through his veins, and he's hungry, so hungry, the beast inside him waking up and snarling. Everything in him, every urge and every instinct and every whim is speaking with one voice, and they're all telling him to do what he was made for: feed.

He hitches Frank up, making him cry out, and presses his lips to the side of Frank's throat, searching for the vein. It isn't difficult to find, thick and bright and pulsing in time with Frank's heartbeat like the beat of a drum.

"Do it," Frank says roughly, but there's a pleading edge in his voice. "C'mon, show me your teeth."

Gerard couldn't say no to an offer like that even if he wanted to.

He sweeps Frank's hair out of the way and Frank makes a thin keening noise, tipping his head to the side to give Gerard better access. Gerard's tongue darts out, tasting the salt on Frank's skin, and his lips draw back in preparation.

And he bites.

His teeth go through Frank's delicate skin like hot knives through butter, and Frank fucking howls. But Gerard barely hears him, barely feels the way Frank's whole body tenses and shivers, because there's hot, fresh blood welling up in the bite, and it's like shooting up with bottled sunlight. It's so warm, rich and heady like fine wine, and it's completely overwhelming. Gerard is drowning in Frank, every one of his senses saturated with him. He's punch-drunk, an addict from the very first taste, and the pure, fierce ecstasy is closing over his head and dragging him under. He's buried up to the hilt in Frank, Frank's blood hot and heady around his mouth, and Frank, Frank, Frank. Gerard is close to losing it, pulled taut and so close to breaking that it's almost painful. Frank is moaning and squirming on his cock, pinned between the wall and Gerard's chest. He's fucking unbelievable, this beautiful, weird-ass boy who took a vampire out to dinner and just asked, bold as brass, to be bitten. Gerard feels oddly disorientated, like Frank has knocked his cosy little world out of its orbit.

The world starts to fade and blur at the edges, and Gerard reluctantly withdraws his teeth from Frank's throat. The more he takes, the higher the risk of an accidental turning. Also, Frank is starting to look sort of pale. Pale, but totally blissed-out, letting out these increasingly high, desperate noises every time Gerard drives into him.

Gerard ducks his head and licks gently over the bite, and Frank cries out and comes over both of their bellies, his hands clenching convulsively in Gerard's hair. He tenses, suddenly impossibly tight around Gerard, and Gerard follows him over the edge with a broken groan. Gerard rides it out, rocked by the waves crashing over him while Frank pants in his ear.

At last, when he's so oversensitised it feels as if his skin is singing, he lets Frank down gently and pulls out. Frank staggers, lightheaded, and Gerard's hand shoots out to steady him. Oops. He's starting to feel the first creeping pangs of guilt. He probably took too much. More than he really needed, at any rate, especially after the glass he had in the restaurant.

He guides Frank over to the bed, where he flops down gratefully. Gerard bites his lip. It had all been going so well until he went all caveman and nearly fucking drained his date dry. So, so not cool.

And then Frank shoots him a huge, lazy grin, the wound on his neck still bleeding sluggishly, his gorgeously decorated skin glistening faintly with sweat, his hair a mess, crooked teeth bright in a crooked smile.

"That," he says, "Was _awesome_."

"Yeah?" Gerard settles down next to Frank and darts a shy glance at him from under his eyelashes.

"Oh, yeah." Frank stretches like a cat, positively reeking of satisfaction. "We are _so_ doing that again. Hey, when do I get my I Gave Blood shirt?"

Gerard snorts. He feels weightless, like his body and his mind have been disconnected.  "I Gave Blood And All I Got Was This Lousy Orgasm."

Frank fucking _giggles_ , shoving Gerard playfully. "That's fucking awful, man, you should be ashamed." He pauses thoughtfully for a moment. "But that should totally be the name of our band."

Gerard hums non-commitally. "It's a little long, don't you think?"

"Eh, maybe." Frank shrugs. Or, at least, Gerard assumes that's what he's doing. It's hard to tell, since he's still lying down. He aims a sly smile squarely at Gerard's heart. "But it was a fucking nice orgasm, don't put yourself down."

Something in Gerard's stomach flutters. Somehow, this is a much bigger deal than it really should be. "Nice enough that you'd do it again?"

He knows what Frank said a minute ago, but he has to ask. It all still seems too good to be true.

Frank reaches across the space between the space between them and wipes a smear of blood from Gerard's cheek. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Fuck, yeah. G'night, vamp."

And, with that, he closes his eyes and falls asleep, warm and soft and so sweet, and Gerard can feel a big, dumb grin spreading out across his face like red wine on a white shirt. "Night, Frank," he murmurs, and he could swear he sees the corner of Frank's mouth twitch.


End file.
